


Cough Medicine

by RisingAnarchy



Series: Peter Parker Whumpy One-Shots [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cancer, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt Peter Parker, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Cancer, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker Whump, Peter Parker is Trying His Best, Peter Parker isn't Spider-Man, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Tony Stark, References to Depression, Sad Ending, Sick Character, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Terminal Illnesses, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Feels, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:14:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24765988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RisingAnarchy/pseuds/RisingAnarchy
Summary: Tony Stark doesn’t do “sick kids”. He also doesn’t do this whole “Make-A-Wish” program crap. So, when he meets Peter Parker, a fifteen-year-old cancer patient with Death breathing down the kid’s neck, he doesn’t see himself getting attached. A week passes with rolling eyes and passive aggressive comments before he finally realizes three important things.It isn’t until the last day comes, that Tony Stark sees the importance of not being a dick.
Relationships: Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Avengers Team
Series: Peter Parker Whumpy One-Shots [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448686
Comments: 21
Kudos: 175





	Cough Medicine

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little one-shot to hold some of you guys over before I update ‘TAOS’. I actually wrote this a long time ago but never got around to posting it. It’s actually one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever written. So, hopefully you guys like it to! Heed the warnings, my darlings!
> 
> Warnings:  
> -Terminal Illness  
> -Mentions of Cancer  
> -Major Character Death

He was sitting there, talking to me like it were any other Saturday afternoon; enjoying each other's company. I asked him a question, to which he doesn't respond. His eyes momentarily lose that sparkle that I adore, as if he were lost somewhere else, seeing something that I could not. The chasm of life had been pitifully drained from his doe-like irises. You could almost see the scars of hopelessness etched into his eyes. They were cold and black. Maybe, once, they had been a soft brown with flecks of gold or green. It was almost as if the life had left him, despite the gentle rise and fall of his frail chest.

His snowflake skin matched his personality nowadays- devoid of any warmth. If I didn't know any better, I'd assume he hadn't seen the sun in about twenty years. 

The alabaster hue is frightening, to say the least.

He's strikingly similar to a corpse in more ways than one. He looked like a ghost and behaved accordingly. A shallow face met mine, weathered and mottled; he keeps talking without a care in the world.

Lips- blue, cracked and caked with grime from refusing to drink- begin to bleed.

Ignoring his words, my shaking hand fondles a wet rag that has settled on his forehead beforehand. Wiping away at the crimson liquid, I barely noticed that he's ceased his talking and is now glaring at me with heavy-lidded, sorrowful eyes. His gaze doesn't falter when I pull the rag away, pleased to see the broken skin had stopped gushing blood. Thin skin, and yet the boy was still alive and kicking.

Not for long, I think bitterly, but those horrible thoughts are drowned out by a soft, vacant voice calling out again.

“Mister Stark," So gentle and broken, the whisper is barely heard as I try desperately to shelter his voice out, for just a moment. Silence is all I need, and maybe another cup of coffee. I close my eyes. "Mis'ser Stark you don't have sand on your clothes anymore."

A delusion again. Or a dream, perhaps.

_1\. Don’t assume you have better things to do than let someone had there “thing”._

Steeling myself I offer a small smile and run my fingers against my thigh. If I look him in the eyes, I'll get stuck and I won't be able to look away from his cadaverous body. Sympathy fills my veins and I will myself to not get to attached. Getting attached is the first step to total destruction.

I still can't believe this kid's dying wish was to meet me.

Just another stupid fan, I chastise myself once more for thinking so un-compassionately. This is a child, who is dying, and I can't even look him in the eyes as he slowly slips away. What type of hero am I?!

“Oh, no?" I play into his delusions.

Cancer is a stupid disease. 

“No," He smiles just barely, but it doesn't even reach his eyes. A child should never have a look so despondent on his face. A child should be laughing and have flushed cheeks and should have enough energy to lift his own damn hand. I think back to my own childhood and curse myself for every spoiled thought I've ever had. It could have been worse: I could have ended up like this poor sap. Stuck in a hospital bed, slowly withering away with only his aunt to keep him company. And even then, she has to work most days with long hours and rarely sees him. But, no, he insists she leaves every day. I've been seeing this kid for a week, Pepper said it would make him happy to have some company before he passes. I have better things to do. "No, but the sand was bothering you so you must've... must've washed it off."

I hum, distracted. "Where did the sand come from, kid?"

“Oh," His eyes fluttered for a moment, his breathing stuttering. For a brief second, I consider calling his nurse because I sure as hell don't want to be in the room when he kicks the bucket. It's coming, too, I have a gut feeling. No more than a minute later, however, the teenager is okay once more. "Th-The beach. Wah-We were at the beach and you we-were complainin’ a-about the s-s-sand. Where am I?"

Don't cry, I tell myself. You don't really care, don't pretend like you ever did.

“The hospital, kid. Sorry about that- no beaches. But maybe you'll get out of here soon and you can go to see one."

False hope. Shut up, Tony.

“Will you go with me?"

“No, Peter, I'm sorry. I have a lot of work to do, I'm sure you can guess. Our hour is almost up, kiddo, so if there's anything you wanted to... Peter?"

He's staring at me again. His mouth is slightly a gape, throat making an odd high-pitched sound, but just quiet enough for me to hear. Peter's eyes gloss over, grey slowly turning to grey and back again, but his gaze doesn't falter. His hand fumbles around the blanket and I feel myself at a loss. Blindly, I put my hand on the cot. Surprised, I jump slightly at the feeling of a small, calloused hand linking through mine, clutching weakly. Even if I wanted to leave, I couldn't. Not with those eyes pinning me down, and that cold hand holding me in place. I look up from my hand and see tears have sprung from Peter's eyes.

I made the kid cry.

I made a cancer patient cry.

_2\. Don’t be so self-centered that you cannot see the error in the simplest of sins._

“I've known for two years that I was goin’ to die," He whispers, no hint of pain in his voice, but the mental anguish is trying and potent. His small hand grips harder ever so slightly. "I jus’ didn't know when."

“Yeah, kid."

“I think I know now."

I close my eyes briefly, blinking quickly. "Let me call the nurse, okay? She'll get you situated and you'll be just fine, kid."

“No," He strains when I reach for the panic button. His other hand, riddled with sores, clutches at my other hand and holds it still. I could pull away, but I choose not to. I really don't want to be here when the poor thing dies, but I feel captivated by this small boy. He wears sweatpants and a sweatshirt that's absolutely huge on him. A beanie rests on his almost completely bald head. "I want you here."

But I don't want to be.

“Alright."

“I have no one but you."

“Stop, kid," I say sternly, but he doesn't look scared whatsoever. In fact, he looks almost determined. That scares me. How can anyone look so defiant despite a horrible poison running through your veins? The cold, depressing hand of death warming over you as you lay helpless, accompanied only by a selfish excuse for a hero. How dare he look so undaunted and indifferent about his impending demise? Who gave him the right to not care anymore? Who the fuck told him he could give up with that stupid look on his face?! “You shouldn’t rely on me for comfort. I’ve only known you for a week now and I’m nothing like your aunt. Now, stop, okay? I’ll call the nurses in, they’ll call your aunt, and you will be completely fine. Do you hear me? Peter. Peter!”

But now he’s looking at me with sad eyes.

Eyes that scream with unadulterated fear and yet somehow seem so docile and calm.

“Don’t call,” He finally whispers, cracked lips beginning to bleed dully. “Just stay with me. Promise?”

“I can’t promise you anything, kid. I don’t know you- you don’t know me. I won’t sit here and watch you die, alright? Don’t put that burden on me.”

Peter stares at me then, and it hits me that I’m not the fifteen year old with terminal cancer.   


It dawns on me. Peter Parker will die knowing the man he looked up to A) couldn’t give a flying shit about him, and B) years of grief, bullying and overcoming relentless mental illness, will all be for not. 

And for some reason, that hits harder than any alien, monster, man or god could.

He won’t be here next week. I will be. And yet I still had the balls to tell him I wouldn’t stay with him in his last moments of life simply because I didn’t want to guilt resting heavily on my chest. Rodgers would be better at this crap.

_This crap?!_ Am I hearing myself correctly? Dammit. Maybe I really don’t have a heart and everyone’s just been lying to me this whole time.

Fear encases me as Peter’s small hand wraps tighter around my own, gripping with a horrible sense of dread. If death was a person, I vaguely think about how I could see him in the corner of the room. Watching, and waiting for the right time to strike and take away an innocent life.

“We’re on the beach, Mis’ser Stark. Thought you didn’t wan’ the sand all over you? Thas’ silly, Mis’ser Stark.”

I squeeze my eyes shut and take in a shuttering breath. Tears fill my eyes and I can’t remember the last time I’ve cried.

“I don’t, Peter. But I’ll sit in the sand for you.”

“Would you? Thanks.”

I gulp.

“No problem, Peter. Is anyone else on the beach with us?”

For a moment, he seems to contemplate this before a woozy smile crawls its way to his lips. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was drunk. But since I was here when the nurse changed his IV drip, I know he’s really just high on some medication I don’t know the name of, which doesn’t seem much better in my opinion. His pupils are dilated, eyes large, and warm despite their hollowed our appearance. They remind me of Jarvis.

Finally, coming up with an answer, Peter nods and begins to play idly with my fingers.

I don’t pull away.

“Yeah. M’ friend Ned. He bought us m’ favorite san’wich from Mr. Delmar. Even bought you one Mis’ser Stark. Got m’ a pack of gummy worms too but... but they’re hard to eat ‘cause of all the- the sand. Is’ in my lungs ‘nd it’s hard to breath. Oh, but you brought water. That’s nice of you, Mis’ser Stark.”

“Of course, Peter. Is there anything else you need, kid?”

I don’t expect his answer. I also didn’t expect to become attached to a mentally ill cancer patient in a span of seven days. When Pepper told me it would be good for morale, good for the media and news, I couldn’t have cared less. My reputation, while important, wasn’t my priority and while I was laying low, enjoying my days with my fellow Avengers eating cheap Thai take-out and whiskey, Pepper still believed this thing was a good idea. Even the team thought it would be nice, but my annoyance and constant eye rolling obviously put them on edge.

Maybe they thought I’d insult the poor kid. I’m not that bad, am I?

Thinking back to what I had said about not staying with him, I realize that can’t be right. My mind was so dead-set on getting here and getting out that I hadn’t even cared if the kid was essentially telling me he was dying and was begging me to stay with him in his final moments. Not his aunt. Not one of the nurses he had fallen in (maternal) love with over the passed two years. And not his best friend who had been by his side since grade school.

My heart clenches and for a moment... I wish it were me laying in that hospital bed, not him.

The room is so dismal, so dull and lifeless, it has to be a metaphor for _something_. Maybe a metaphor for the dying kid on the bed, or the overwhelming sense of uselessness and helplessness my body encompasses. Maybe there’s no metaphor at all. This is real life, not a story book or fairy tale. A kid’s dying and all I can fucking think about is how this horrible, cough medicine-smelling place is a metaphor for something I don’t understand! 

A metaphor for... depression. No, no.

A smilie! The room is dark and dreary like Peter’s future is despondent and nonexistent.

Incorrect use of a smilie, I think. So much for being a genius.

Dear Lord... I could be mistaken for a fourteen-year-old emo/scene kid. I know it’s not my place to judge, but I silently thank the big man upstairs (if he’s even real) for not giving me a weird kid to watch over.

Peter may be the best kid I’ve ever met.

He’s sweet, beyond kind to the point where I might think he was a robot programmed to be that way. The kid is polite, knows his ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and always offers to share his meals because he feels awkward when he’s the only one eating. Now, that’s not to say he does eat, because he mostly doesn’t, always complaining about nausea and that fact that he’s simply not hungry. A side effect of chemo, probably, but I hadn’t done any research so I wouldn’t know. But to lessen his worry, I take his Jell-O cup, which he says is too jiggly and weird to eat anyways. The nurses offered a feeding tube, which he denied in any way, shape or form.

But he’s always nice to the nurses, no matter how invasive they are. And that’s saying a lot considering Peter was a naturally private kid. He hated having his arms and legs out in the open, claiming he was constantly cold, but I know it’s just because his limbs are sticks and pale as can be. The most he tells me about his home life is that he lived with his aunt, goes to a school for geniuses and only has two friends: Ned and Michelle (who goes by MJ).

Sometimes Peter has nightmares. He usually doesn’t share, but a few times he hadn’t been completely lucid and began spewing the horrific things he saw.

One time, he says he saw The Light.

Not just “a light”, but The Light, as he fondly calls it. The first thing I thought of was that corny line where someone who’s on the edge of death claims they see a light drawing them in. But, apparently, it wasn’t the same to The Light the kid saw. Peter said it was...

The Light at the End of the Tunnel.

He dreams about it often, and I don’t really know how to counter.

The room isn’t all that bad, I suppose. Peter had been allowed to at least try to personalize it as best he could for a hospital room. Even though he was fifteen and a boy, he had an endless mountain of stuffed animals. Some from before he had been diagnosed, and some from after. It wasn’t difficult to differentiate. The ones from before were better quality, thicker materials and looked older and worn. The ones from after are brightly colored, many holding felt signs that said “Get Better Soon” or “I Love You”, which i thought was pretty cheesy.

Then, there was the blanket. It was Star Wars themed, and he always had it draped over his legs no matter what. Even when we go for our evening walk, him in his wheel chair, to weak to walk, he has that blanket draped over his legs. At first I thought there was some kind of emotional attachment to the object, but I soon learned that he genuinely liked adding color to the white walls and overall grayness of the cancer ward. He also liked Star Wars to the point where I might even call it an obsession.

Peter put up a little poster on the only part of the wall that isn’t covered in medical equipment that says “Hang In There”. A little cat hangs from a tree branch and he says his second grade teacher gave it to him on the last day of school while she was cleaning out her cabinets.

“ _That’s a little cheesy, kid. Dontcha think?”_

_“Yeah, but it makes me happy to know I can out hang a kitten. Wait, that doesn’t make any sense! I don’t even know how to phrase that...”_

“Will you hold me?”

Unexpected. Sad. I don’t know if I can hold you, kid. It might just break down my walls and reduce me to nothing but a blubbering five year old crying over spilled milk. Dammit, kid, you’ve got be wrapped around your finger, haven’t you? My inner monologue is cut short when I suddenly jerkingly nod my head yes.

Peter shifts, ever so slightly, as an invitation for me to get into bed with him and I frown.

This was way out of my comfort zone.

Despite this, I clambering onto the cot anyways and lay down on top of the sheet, crossing my legs. For a moment, it’s awkward, as if neither of us knew what to do from here, but then Peter’s moving, and I don’t stop him.

The dying boy shifts so he’s lying on his side, and even though I’m technically a stranger, he wraps a thin arm around my torso and buried his face into my side. I can’t imagine my suit jacket is very comfortable against his paper-like skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His frail body is cold against mine but I let my arm wrap around his shoulders and land on the small of his back anyways. His other hand digs under my back so I lift it to allow it to snake it’s way across to link with his other hand. He doesn’t seem to find the fact that I’m crushing his arm.

“Peter,” He hums quietly from his squished position against my side. “Why don’t you want me to call your aunt?”

“She’s already here. On the beach.”

“We aren’t on the beach anymore, kid. We’re in the hospital, remember?”

It’s quiet for a moment before his glazed eyes become more lucid. “Oh, yeah. She’d want you here. Trus’ me.”

“Why? I’m a stranger, Pete. Wouldn’t you much rather Ned or Mj here, or your aunt? I’m sure they could comfort you better than I can. Not that anything is happening that I have to comfort you for. You’re fine.”

“You seem to be doin’ a fine job, Mis’ser Stark. Please don’t leave me.”

“I’m not.”

“Thank you.”

I let my eyes close as I take a deep breath in and subconsciously clutch the boy tighter to me.

My hatred for hospitals goes beyond a normal fear of needles or the dismal smell of medicine. It’s more of a personal Hell for me than anything else, which is why I avoid them as much as possible. If Hell really does exist, I’ll probably spend the rest of eternity stuck in a hospital, so avoiding them as much as possible because of the off chance that Hell is a hospital is essential. If I need to be checked over, I’ll have Brucey-Bear or Cho do it under my roof.

When I leave here, I’ll go to a church.

Now, I’ve never actually gone to church before, but something about the idea of going there and praying to whatever being is watching over us feels right. Maybe not intelligent, or logical, but right. Whatever that means.

Laying here in this cold hospital cot, my mind wanders to how Peter would have loved to meet the team.

Peter would like Steve because of Spangle’s character and over all “macho-ness” as I fondly put it. He’d like Nat because she’s scary as hell and for some reason, I think that would entice him. The kid would like Barton because the guy’s got a knack for practical jokes and even has kids of his own, meaning be can be both fun and a (somewhat) good influence. He’d like Thor mainly because the guy’s a literal god, and Peter has a thing for worshipping people (and television shows) for some odd reason. I already know he’d adore Bruce because Peter had a real interest in chemistry and biology, which Banner is an absolute boss at.

His obsession with me is just funny. The kid spent the first two days of me visiting spewing off how excited he was that I, Tony Stark, was actually paying attention to a little kid like him. I usually hate fan-boys, but for some reason, Peter has grown on me. I’d never admit it, though.

“Y’know, Pete. I’m thinking about going to the beach later this week. You really turned my mind around, kid. Sand be damned! Maybe you can even come with me if your doctor lets you, but she’s kinda stuck-up so I wouldn’t count on it. I’ll bring some pictures though, and a jar of sand just for you. Pepper can find some shells, you like shells right? All kids like shells from the beach for some reason. I’ll bring the whole team to the beach and we’ll take a big ol’ group picture just for you! Like a little postcard and what not.”

“And gummy words. I’ll bring you a whole weeks worth of gummy worms. Hell, I’ll buy the gummy worm company and you can have as many bags as you want for free. And Ned too. If Michelle likes gummy worms, she can have a couple, but from all those phone calls we’ve shared with her, she seems a little scary. I’m not sure she likes me. Anyways, you gotta make a list for me. So far we have: beach, gummy worms and... oh! Sandwiches. You want more posters? This places is bland as hell. I’ll bring you a signed poster and I’ll hang it right by the television so you’re always lookin’ at me. Full of myself, right?”

“More blankets too, because I know you’re always cold. Hey, I have a few old sweatshirts from my college days you can have. They might be a bit big on you, but that doesn’t matter much. You like Thai? What am I saying?! Everyone likes Thai! I’ll sneak some in and maybe your aunt can stop by for awhile and have lunch with us. The team can come visit too. They’d love you!”

“Hey, you want my jacket? You’re kinda cold.”

Silence, and a grin plasters itself to my face. The kid must’ve fallen asleep. Who knew I was such a bore? I poke his cold cheek, my smile not faltering any.

“Pete. Hey, Peter. Wake up and answer me question, kid. Hello! Peter, come on kid, if I was boring you why didn’t you just say so? Falling asleep on someone is very rude, you know. How would you feel if I fell asleep while you were talking? Oh, wait. That did happen, didn’t it? In my defense, you were ranting about a show I haven’t even watch before so technically...”

I drone on forever. I don’t notice the sudden darkness in the room. I don’t notice the cool draft that comes over my body and sends shivers down my spine. I don’t notice bluing lips or the absence of breath at my side.

_3\. Don’t stop yourself from enjoying the smaller things in life._

I don’t notice the flat line on the monitor above us.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a few plans for other small fics to post whirl I work on my big project, The Art of Solidarity, which is already on chapter four. So, stay tuned if you’d like! Hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> Feel free to comment, leave kudos, and save for later! Lots of love- Lara <3


End file.
